Randy and Pep went out together about ten o’clock to get some posters from the printers. Frank had brought from the city quite a lot of gaily colored sheets with a blank space left at the top. Here the name and location of the new playhouse had been inserted. It took the boys until noon to get these placed. They posted them in nearly all the stores along the boardwalk. The hotel they had stayed at let them put two in the lobby, and they covered the town in a way satisfactory to themselves. “Wonder what the National people are thinking of doing?” submitted Randy, as they sat down to dinner. “They are going to open to-night—that’s one thing I know,” reported Pep. “They’re not making much stir about it, then,” observed Jolly. “I haven’t heard anybody speak about it, whom I ran across to-day.” “I met the man who is doing their electrical work,” said Pep. “He and I are quite chummy. He told me they were in a fearful mix-up, with things half provided for, but that they would surely open this evening.” “What’s it to be—a nickel?” inquired Jolly. “No a dime, he says; but he showed me a bunch of complimentaries and laughed and said he’d sell them cheap. I haven’t set my eyes on that Peter and the fellow from Fairlands anywhere around town, but I guess they’re pitching in with the workman to get things in order.” Wednesday of the week previous a neat postal card telling of the new photo playhouse had been sent out to every name in the little local directory of Seaside Park. The hotel men had taken a bunch of these and had agreed to put one in the mail of each guest. The local paper happened to be an exchange of the Fairlands weekly, and the editor of the latter had given Frank a letter of introduction to the Seaside Park publisher. As a result, the latter had copied the article about the chums from the home paper and had also given a glowing description of the new playhouse on the beach. It was about two o’clock in the afternoon when the lively Pep came into the playhouse with a new excitement on his mind. “Say, fellows,” he announced, “we’re clear beat out.” “Hi! what’s up now?” asked Ben Jolly. “The National without an I has got us going. Just met Peter Carrington. He’s jumping around like a chicken on a hot griddle. Just had time to flash by me and crow out, ‘Watch out for our grand free concert to-night.’” “Is that so—hum!” observed Jolly, musingly. “I wish I’d thought of that. I suppose we ought to make some little noise the opening night. Too late to arrange for it now, though. Just in time for practice, Pep. Put on that best coat of yours and a flower in your buttonhole, and usher in imaginary thousands, while Powell piles up uncounted dimes in the ticket office and Durham shoots the films. Ready—go!” and with a crash of the piano keys the volatile fellow began a lively overture.